A Son Of Nemesis
by wholocked4
Summary: Sherlock is hiding something from John. And the doctor knows it. Why does his flatmate get twitchy around old "hags"? Or why is he so attached to an eye patch? Rated M for some language. Hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

I

"Mrs. Hudson wants to know when- Sherlock?"

The black haired man looked up from the small black object he was holding and wrapped his hand possessively around it. "Hm?"

"Do you even know what I´m talking about?!" John demanded.

"Of course!" A pause. "No, I have no idea."

"What´s that, anyway?" the shorter man asked, reaching towards Sherlock's closed fist.

"Nothing," he answered and drew his hand away from John´s reach. John frowned. Sherlock never hid evidence from cases from him. And that´s the only thing it could be. Sherlock didn't keep any sort of sentimental possessions.

"Sherlock," the blonde demanded slowly, but the other did not budge. "Come on!"

The detective rolled his eyes and slammed the mysterious object into John´s hand before huffing away. An eye patch. "What case is it from?" he asked.

"Why would you assume it is from a case?" Sherlock replied dryly. "I was holding it in my hand, just gazing at it, not letting my only friend come close to it. It obviously represents memories I want to forget. If it was from a case, I would be in the kitchen or at Bart´s analysing it. It clearly has some sentimental value to me."

"I thought you didn't have, you know," John hesitated, "feelings. Or that you keep them locked up deep inside your stone heart."

The side of Sherlock´s mouth quirked into a small smile. "I have _feelings _for only two things in life, John." The doctor did not know any of them.

"So... it´s from the time you wanted to be a pirate?"

Sherlock's face hardened. "I am going to murder Mycroft." John simply smiled.

The blonde waited for ten full minutes before asking, "You are not going to give me any more details, are you?"

He already knew the answer so he stood up and walked to the kitchen to brew himself some tea before his friend had a chance to answer.

The two men were walking away from a crime scene, Sherlock´s coat wrapped tightly around his thin frame. When they were out of Lestrade's view, they burst into mad fits of laughter. "Sh-Sherlock! It´s not decent!" John complained as he fought for breath, but he didn't mean it.

"But Anderson's _face_! He made a complete fool of himself, John!"

John giggled as he remembered. After Sherlock had worked his deducing magic, Anderson had tried to argue, saying it made no sense, only to be corrected by the suspect herself. His ugly pale face had blushed deep scarlet. "Oh, shut up. You are only happy because you were able to show off. Again!" John laughed.

Sherlock suddenly stopped laughing and his eyes widened. His hand flew to the pocket of his coat as if he expected to find a weapon, but as far as John knew, he only kept his pocket magnifying glass there. The soldier followed his gaze. The tall man was looking at a frail old lady crossing the street. For John, she was no danger, but he still tried to look at her through Sherlock´s analytic eyes, with no result.

"Um, d´you reckon she´s going to beat us to death with baked goods?" he asked his friend.

The black-haired man looked at him with a How-can´t-you-see-it? Look, but then he apparently remembered something. "No, John. Where did you get that idea?" he said and walked away, leaving a confused John behind.

"You are hiding something from me."

"No, I´m not," Sherlock answered. "And we are out of eggs."

"What does that have to with anything? And I bought eggs yesterday!"

"Tried to extract enough DNA to clone a chick. Failed," he explained mechanically.

John frowned and rolled his eyes. "Anyway, back to you hiding things from me.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Sherlock asked.

"Because you are. The eye patch, the old lady you were scared of..."

"That you, John, were scared of an elder woman does not mean that _I_ was scared of her."

"Sheer-lock, of course you are! You know you can tell me anything!" John pouted.

"Not the things that put you in danger, John." Sherlock´s tone was serious.

"You microwave eyeballs, make me go on a demon hound chase, I had to wear a bomb vest just because you know me, but you don´t like to _put me in danger_? Really?"

"This would be more dangerous than anything you´ve seen, more dangerous than Moriarty. Well, maybe not the hound, if it had been real."

John frowned. "That sounds almost impossible... but I´m only asking for an explanation! How can a few words hurt?" he wondered.

"You have no idea."

"How?! How could it hurt?! Tell me!"

"Imagine that I told you that... I don't know, some English birds have a spot in their feet. Before I told you, you would only see the bird but ignore the feet, but after I told you,you would try to look at the feet," Sherlock explained. "Understand?"

"No," John answered. "Tell me."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. If he told him, John would see everything he saw. The only difference would be that Sherlock had grown up seeing it. John would be shocked. Sherlock looked around, looking for something he could use as an example. He eyed a glass of water, its water creating a rainbow. He dug into his pocket and found a cold metal circle. Good, he had cash. It could come after the sword.

"So, John, what do you know about the Greek gods?"

"Erm, some myths. Zeus is King, Hera is his Queen. Not much."

"Nemesis?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"Like... an enemy? What do you mean? Where is this going?"

Sherlock huffed and, wrapping his gown around him, flipped over, his face facing the back of the couch. "Useless," he said.

John was used to Sherlock´s random fits. He poked the detective´s slim hips. "Oh, come on! I´m sorry for... whatever I did."

Sherlock continued talking without turning around. "Greek gods. What would you do if I told you they were real?"

"Laugh," the army doctor answered, "and then freak out because you never joke."

"You are sitting down. Good. That minimizes the chances of you hitting your head when you "freak out"."

"Oh-kay."

"They are real," Sherlock stated, and then stood up suddenly. "Tea?" he asked, considering the conversation done.

"Whoa, whoa, what?! That´s it?! "They are real"?!" John practically screamed.

"Yes. That´s it."

"And what does that have to do with you?" he asked. "If they _are _real."

"Oh, right. Me," Sherlock chuckled and John rolled his eyes. "Do demigods figure in your minimal knowledge of Greek mythology, John?"

"A son of a god and a mortal, yes," the blonde replied. After a pause, realization dawned on his face. "Oh, no. You have got to be kidding me! You? But... wha- I- you- prove it!" he demanded finally.

"I knew you would say that." Sherlock took out his magnifying glass and spun it thrice in his hand. For the detective, he was now looking at a bronze sword as long as his arm with a black handle studded with grey crystals. For the doctor, it was still a pocket magnifying glass.

"And?" the shorter man asked unimpressed.

"Oh, for the love of the gods! John! Think of what I just told you! Focus and look beyond your tiny mortal mind!"

"Gee, thanks." John stared at his friend´s hand. After a few seconds, his jaw dropped.

"Finally!" Sherlock grumbled. He pointed at John with his sword. "Now you believe me? Good. I´m going out, I feel like stabbing a Greek monster." And he was gone before John could tell him to put some decent clothes on.


	2. Chapter 2

II

When the consulting detective re-entered 221B, he thankfully wasn´t covered in monster blood or anything suspicious apart from a few cuts.

John had not moved from his seat. He had tried to blog something, but questions kept bothering him. How many times had Sherlock lied to him? How many times had they chased what seemed to be a normal criminal but actually had three heads and a dragon´s tail? John had looked for demigods in the Internet. He had found myths and common characteristics. They lived dangerous lives (oh, really?), went on sever quests (you don´t say!), and apparently inherited several attitudes from their godly parent. The doctor stopped his search. Who was Sherlock´s godly parent? Did he or she have something to do with Mycroft also?

The blank search box stared back at him. What had Sherlock said before huffing and pouting like a three-year-old? Nemesis? John typed in the word and scrolled through the results. "Goddess of revenge... bad temper... not precisely patient... out-spoken..." he read. "Am I reading the Holmes resume?"

A shuffling of feet unglued his eyes from the screen.

Sherlock flopped himself on the couch. "Hi," he muttered tiredly.

"Um, hello."

"Don´t worry, John. There´s this thing called Mist that blocks things from the mythological world from mortal eyes."

"I´m not- so they saw a mad man in pyjamas and a gown stabbing thin air with a magnifying glass?"

"Actually, stabbing a poodle, I think," Sherlock answered calmly. He turned to look at his flatmate, his hands joined at the tips and placed under his chin. "You are taking this all quite calmly," he noted.

"Well," the soldier admitted, "I´m used to getting strange news of and from you."

Sherlock returned his gaze to the ceiling and silence fell over the flat for a few minutes. John was the first to break it.

"I looked her up, you know. Nemesis. She´s your godly parent, right?"

"Correct."

"Also Mycroft's, I suppose? She is "Mummy"?"

"No," the black-haired man answered to John's surprise. "Mummy is a rich mortal woman who had the misfortune of being cheated on with a goddess. Mycroft is my half-brother. But don't mention it when you see him. He will ramble on about honour. It´s tedious."

"And the eye patch?" Sherlock frowned. "I have a feeling it fits in here somewhere, Sherlock."

"I have said enough." And with this, the detective closed his eyes and openly ignored his friend.

During the next week, John decided to use Sherlock´s own medicine against him. While the detective was trying to prove some crazy theory in his kitchen, solve a case, or stare at the wall and mourn about his boredom, his phone kept buzzing.

Eye patch –JW

Where did you get an eye patch? –JW

Sherlock! –JW

Sheeeeerlock –JW

EEEEEye patch –JW

Throughout that week, John also discovered why ignorance was bliss. His walk to the clinic changed completely. He saw a harpie, a gorgon, a _thing_ (the Internet was not able to explain what it was), and a couple of thirteen-year-olds buying chips with swords hanging from their belts. And they saw _him_, and that was not nice. Also, Mycroft had noticed something new under the sun, and kidnapped him as usual. John didn't say anything.

On Saturday morning, John had given up all efforts to find out more about the eye patch. "He´ll tell me when he is ready," he told himself, "and I'll just keep lying to myself and pigs will fly. Like _that _is going to happen." John made a mental note to search flying pigs in Greek mythology. Just in case.

But it did. When John walked into the living room on Sunday, Sherlock stopped plucking his violin and said, "My half-brother´s."

"Excuse me?"

"The eye patch. It´s my half-brother´s," Sherlock explained.

"Mycroft´s?!" John exclaimed in surprise.

"No. Another son of Nemesis. Ethan Nakamura." Sherlock spat the name slowly.

"Why haven´t I met him?" John asked, but then changed his mind, "Never mind, I really don't want someone else kidnapping me."

"He wouldn´t kidnap you, John," Sherlock snapped, "And if you want to meet him, you just have to go to Los Angeles, find a place called DOA Records, and enter Hades´s realm!" John had never seen Sherlock so flustered, not even after he saw the hound. The doctor searched through his recently acquired knowledge. Hades... lord of the underworld and- (His eyes locked with his flatmate's disturbingly grey ones.) –and lord of the dead.

"I´m sorry," he whispered. "I´m so sorry, Sherlock. I-"

"Don´t, John. Just... don't." A long pause. John thought, just for moment, that something wavered in Sherlock´s hard eyes, but it couldn´t be. "He died a hero´s death, you know. Something I could never get."

John felt a knot in his stomach. The room seemed to swivel around him. Or maybe this was only an excuse for leaning in, just an inch, a tiny, harmless inch. "Yes. Yes, you could. Don't you dare say that you couldn´t, Holmes. You are the brav-"

"No, John," the detective answered. "Don't lie. _You _are the bravest man I know and will ever know."

"Maybe I don't know myself yet," the blonde grinned.

"Obviously you don't. After all, you seem to be incredibly ignorant of how truly brilliant you are," Sherlock said with a neutral tone before breaking his eyes from John´s. "Now, how could a fifteen year-old maid sneak a poisoned mint into her mistress´s pocket? Any ideas?"

John didn't have any ideas. He was too busy staring at the side of his flatmate´s head with his mouth hanging open. "How- What- Excuse me?!"

"A mint, John. A small, round, hard candy-"

"Not that!"

"Boooys!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called. "Someone is here for you!"


End file.
